


A Room of One's Own

by susandwrites



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Airbnb au, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Case Fic, First Meetings, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Roommates, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sort Of, accidental prompt, but with a deadline, they were roommates, we're really going to focus on the sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-03-13 09:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18937993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susandwrites/pseuds/susandwrites
Summary: Credit to watsonshoneybee for their airbnb au idea on tumblr. https://watsonshoneybee.tumblr.com/post/184599360179/airbnb-au-they-were-roommates-but-with-a-deadline "They were roommates, but with a deadline." I just loved the whole idea and so here it is.Things will get Explicit. Trust me.





	1. Chapter 1

_ “To let: one bedroom measuring exactly 89.79 square feet on second floor of Georgian townhouse in Marylebone. Room comprises of: one double bed; one wooden wardrobe with minimal fire damage; small and out-of-service coal fireplace (not the source of the wardrobe damage). Common spaces are: sitting room with working fireplace; kitchen (not currently for use as a kitchen); one toilet ‒ all on first floor. Photos included at insistence of my landlady.” _

John thumbed through the photos and his brow furrowed at the general state of unkemptness. But beneath the heavy layer of paper and books and scientific instruments, he noticed wooden floors that looked original, built-in bookcases, and a not-altogether-unpleasant combination of modern and Victorian furniture. And a large bison skull. Interesting.

A small smile pulled at his cheek for the first time since he’d started toward London twenty hours ago. The journey from base was long and arduous, the flight had been turbulent, and Harry had already called him three times and left one slurred voicemail. All for three days of leave he did not necessarily want to take.

The best course of action was take an AirBNB rental, pretend he had something important and militaristic to attend to, avoid taking a meal with Harry, and get back on a plane to Kandahar. And something about this listing had stood out to him. Alright ‒ the  _ price _ had stood out to him. It was absolutely unbeatable for that part of the city. So what if the bloke letting it out was a bit of an eccentric? John had dealt with worse in his time.

_ “Oh ‒ the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.” _

_ —— _

“Yoo-hoo! Sherlock, dear?” Mrs. Hudson’s soft voice rang out through the flat. “Are you decent?”

“Depends on your definition.” Sherlock pushed his safety goggles up his forehead to rest in his wild curls. Leaning dangerously on his stool, he saw her come into the sitting room from around the kitchen corner. “What do you want?” His voice held no trace of vitriol. 

“This lovely young man is here to let out the room upstairs,” she continued. “He said he found it on his mobile — I don’t know the first thing about those contraptions,” she said to an unseen third party. “Sherlock put the listing up for me.”

The “lovely young man” who came into the room behind Mrs. Hudson actually caused Sherlock to double-take. He was a little short, but had an air about him which instantly commanded respect. Straight shoulders, short-cropped blond hair, square jaw, and soft, dark blue eyes ‒ Sherlock took these in with rapidly-growing eagerness. When he caught sight of Sherlock, the man’s handsome face broke into an easy smile that showed perfect teeth and brought charming crinkles to the corners of his eyes.

“Hello,” he said simply and Sherlock swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“Afternoon,” he finally managed. The man reached out his hand and Sherlock took it, relieved that his own grip was steady, before spitting out, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Hmm?” The man’s eyebrows lowered for a fraction of a second before his expression brightened. “Oh,” he said, gesturing to his Army jacket with his free hand. “Afghanistan. Got a few days’ leave before heading back home to Kandahar.” His next smile was a little tighter than before, and Sherlock tilted his head curiously. Then he realised that their hands were still gripped together in a stagnated shake and he immediately let go. “So you’re… Sherlock Holmes, then?”

It was only then that Sherlock realised that he had not asked for the man’s name. That was probably rude. “Oh, erm, yes. Sherlock Holmes. And you are…?”

“John Watson.”

“Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Sherlock pointed at the insignia on John Watson’s jacket sleeve and he nodded in reply. 

“The very same.” His gaze swept around the room before landing on the kitchen table. Moving forward with curiosity, he said casually, “But you can call me ‘John.’ ‘Captain’ might be a little formal for the sitting room, don’t you think?” A faint shiver ran down Sherlock spine at the word ‘captain,’ but he ignored it.

“Well, I’ll leave you two boys to it, then,” Mrs. Hudson chirped and Sherlock nearly jumped ‒ he had completely forgotten she was even there. “John, dear, let me know if you need anything. I’m just downstairs. Ta!” With a little wave over her shoulder, Mrs. Hudson started down the stairs, the uneven cadence of her gait slowly receding.

Sherlock turned back to the kitchen to see that John had circled around the detritus on the table and was carefully lifting a petri dish full of fingernails to examine it more closely. A sudden cold terror gripped Sherlock by the spine ‒ what must this man think? Test tubes and beakers and all manner of materials both biological and chemical were piled over every available kitchen surface.  _ He’s going to run _ , Sherlock thought, panicked.  _ Who wouldn’t? I must look a complete lunatic ‒ _

“I suppose this is what you meant by ‘kitchen not currently for use as a kitchen,’” John said with a little chuckle. 

“This space is the most conducive for my experiments,” Sherlock offered, rather lamely. But John did not reply. He calmly replaced the dish full of fingernails and continued exploring the room, bending every so often to take a closer look at some aspect or other of Sherlock’s experiments. He stood upright again and shifted his hips, moving in that way that any man would recognise as “adjusting”, and Sherlock swallowed.  _ Good God, can he really be that big‒  _

“So what’s with the fingernails?” John’s open, innocent expression caused Sherlock to instantly flush as he reeled in his traitorous thoughts. He cleared his throat and schooled his expression into calm aloofness.

“I’m testing the corrosive effects of different household cleansers on the human body. The fingernails were the most pertinent factor in the case at hand.”

John snorted a little laugh, but Sherlock missed his own pun. “What case?”

“I’m a detective.”

“A policeman?” It was Sherlock’s turn to scoff.

“Hardly. A consulting detective. The only one in the world ‒ I invented the job,” Sherlock said. John nodded and gave a little  _ hmm _ , but it held none of the condescension people usually reserved for Sherlock’s “self-important ideas.”  _ Curious _ . John hardly seemed phased by the presence of dismembered body parts in the kitchen. “You aren’t…  _ bothered _ by my experiment?”

“I’ve seen worse,” John said, his tone somehow both flippant and grave. “Hell, I’ve seen worse within the week.” He turned slightly and touched a finger to the RAMC patch on his shoulder. Sherlock nodded solemnly, unsure of what else to say. Thankfully, John spared him any awkwardness. He clapped his hands together, dismissing any discomfort in the room, and said jovially, “Well, I’ll just go and put my things upstairs, shall I?” With that, he marched toward the front door and heaved his large rucksack over his shoulder with impressive ease.

“I’ll just, erm… be here, then,” Sherlock murmured, watching as John’s lower half disappeared up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, you guys! I cannot believe how many comments this little fic got after just one night! Each and every comment and kudos and visit just makes my little heart soar, so thank you all so much!
> 
> Love and kisses, Diana

A dull  _ thump _ interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts. His eyebrows knitted together and an annoyed sigh fell from his lips. When Mrs. Hudson had suggested letting out the room upstairs, he had suspected that it would be dreadfully non-conducive for his brain work; but Stamford had pointed out that this was a rather selfish perspective. “Mrs. Hudson’s cutting you an excellent deal on that flat, mate. But she’s on a fixed income ‒ she could probably use a bit more each month than she wants to ask from you.” Reluctantly, Sherlock had conceded and even agreed to put up the listing on Mrs. H’s behalf.

But he had absolutely  _ not _ agreed to having his five-am thought experiments interrupted by a rhythmic creaking from the floorboards directly above. Sherlock gave the ceiling his most menacing glare, but it was unmoved by his ire. After a long moment, a deep ‒ almost pained ‒ groan sounded from the second floor and Sherlock’s head tilted as his anger gave way to curiosity.  _ John? _

Another sound ‒ an  _ oof _ this time ‒ came from above and Sherlock found himself on his feet. Something was not right. Sherlock had not lived with another person since Cambridge, but they usually did not make so much noise so early in the morning. No ‒ something was almost certainly amiss. 

So Sherlock unfolded his legs and rose from his armchair and climbed the stairs as quietly as he was able. Soft grunts and creaks continued to emanate from the bedroom, though Sherlock was certain he could only make out one voice. John’s? Hard to be sure. Sherlock approached the room as cautiously as a spooked cat and nearly had his ear pressed against the door when it flew open.

He let out a thoroughly undignified squawk as John’s right hand shot out and grabbed Sherlock by the shirtfront, his left hand raised and ready to strike. John was quick as a snake, securing his prey and ready to pounce in the space of a second and Sherlock’s eyes flew open in surprise. Almost as soon as John had grabbed hold of Sherlock, his face relaxed and his fist loosened.

“Jesus, Sherlock, you scared me half to death,” he breathed out, using his right hand to mindlessly smooth Sherlock’s now-crumpled shirt. Sherlock’s heart gave an irregular jolt and he assured himself it was from the fright John had given  _ him _ . “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” Sherlock replied, finally taking in John’s appearance. He was clearly dressed for running: old, worn trainers; cotton shorts which fell  _ just a little  _ too short across his muscular thighs; and a faded green ARMY t-shirt that did little to conceal John’s strong chest and shoulders. A faint flush had risen to John’s cheeks from whatever exertions had transpired within his bedroom and Sherlock swallowed thickly.  _ Stretching or ‘warming up’ or whatever it is people do. _

“I’m just going for a run,” John confirmed, the casual joviality returning to his voice. “Don’t do much lying in in the Army.” He grinned and turned to pull his bedroom door shut. It was only then that Sherlock realised that he had not moved away from John since he had emerged, and they were gathered rather closer together than was strictly necessary on the landing. “Care to join me?”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at the thought.  _ Going for a run, indeed.  _ “I don’t… that’s not really my ‒”

“Come on,” John goaded, sidling around Sherlock’s body, awkward and thin by comparison. “You’ve got the build for it ‒ I reckon you’re an excellent runner.” As he descended the stairs, John turned and gave Sherlock a cheery little wink over his shoulder. “I’ll go easy on you.”

Which was apparently all it took for Sherlock to change into a pair of pyjama bottoms that would pass for joggers and a black t-shirt. From the back of his closet, he dug out a pair of trainers he’d used as a disguise from time to time and met John in the sitting room. Sherlock blinked in confusion, as though awakening from a fugue state and finding himself suddenly a “jogging person.”  _ What just happened? _

“Let’s get going then.” With that, John led the way out of the flat and down to the street, eerily still in the pre-dawn light. John paused at the bottom of the stoop to stretch a bit more, pulling each ankle in turn up toward his buttocks and then pushing into a deep lunge to stretch out each calf. At a complete loss ‒ Sherlock didn’t  _ jog! _ ‒ the detective mimicked John’s motions, struggling to keep his gaze completely innocent.  _ Get yourself together, Holmes. He’s just a man. A stranger, even.  _ But an intriguing stranger, to be sure. No one person had ever held the power over Sherlock that Captain John Watson seemed to wield without even knowing it.

They started out slowly, jogging in oddly-companionable silence toward the Outer Circle which surrounded Regent’s Park. A few other early-risers were out and about as well, making their way around the various paths and tracks at vastly difference paces. One elderly fellow was shuffling along at a surprising speed with what appeared to be a belt of weights wrapped around his midsection.  _ Fascinating… _

They were nearly to the Zoological Society Building before Sherlock realised that it was John’s intention to run completely around the park. He was instantly filled with regret at his decision to follow John on this idiotic endeavour.  _ Stupid… running in a huge circle. And what for? For my ‘health?’ _

John was a pace or two ahead of Sherlock and he suddenly saw “what for” when he dragged his gaze over from the treeline to John’s body. Hard muscles tightened and relaxed with each measured, loping step, shining with a thin sheen of sweat and glinting in the rising sunlight. It was almost comical, how magnificent John looked. As if Sherlock were watching him in slow motion, a handsome leading man in some terribly-written romance film. “Oh, good Lord,” Sherlock panted, exhausted from pointless running and frustrated by John’s annoying level of attractiveness. 

“Everything alright back there?” John turned deftly and jogged backward for a while, his ankles crossing with the ease of someone who had played football for years and was sure of their every step.  _ Rugby, more likely, given his build _ . Sherlock shook off images of John in a rugby kit, covered in mud and sweat and maybe even a bit of blood, bruised and golden all at once. “You gonna make it, Sherlock? We’re only halfway round.” He was grinning with a confidence that should have been cocky, but was instead thoroughly charming. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock mumbled, glancing downward and instantly regretting it. The front of John’s shorts was flapping with the rhythmic motion of his cock, bouncing with his every step and causing Sherlock’s mouth to go completely dry. He groaned aloud and said roughly, “Water.” John nodded, but Sherlock had already diverted to a nearby fountain, desperate for a reason to tear his gaze away.

He threw himself against the fountain and drank deeply, his thirst only partly physical and therefor only partly quenched.  _ God, what is the  _ matter _ with me? It’s just a cock ‒ you’ve got one, it’s not that special!  _

“You don’t run much, do you?” John leaned down after Sherlock and took a deep drink of the cool water.

“Actually,” Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to steady his heart rate, “I run rather a lot. But I’m usually going somewhere. Or chasing after someone. The adrenaline does wonders for the monotony of a morning jog.” John huffed out a panting laugh.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I usually have much more interesting things to run toward ‒ or more likely  _ from _ .” John lifted the hem of his shirt and dabbed at the sweat on his brow and Sherlock quickly averted his eyes. But not quick enough to miss the defined ridge of John’s oblique muscles and the dip of his iliac crest. “C’mon,” John urged gently, “let’s finish up, eh?” Sherlock blew a deep breath out through puffed cheeks before nodding.

They took up a more forgiving pace than before, but still finished with a better time than Sherlock had anticipated. His watch indicated that they had only been gone for less than half-an-hour; the Outer Loop was almost exactly three miles, which meant that they had done about eight minutes per mile. Not bad, but Sherlock was certain that John could do better on his own. He frowned and wondered what his best possible time might be, if he trained a little. Could he keep up?

John patted Sherlock on the shoulder as they re-entered the foyer and said, “Breakfast? After a shower, of course.”

_ Separate showers, Holmes, separate! _ “The place next door does an excellent fry up.”

“Brilliant.” John jogged up the stairs as though they had not just run three miles for no reason other than to run three miles and Sherlock followed him into the flat, slightly less enthusiastically. The familiar  _ boo-doop _ of his text alert sounded from where he had left his mobile on the coffee table and he grabbed it up as John undid his trainers. 

_ Got a weird one. 9 Old Compton St. Will you come? _

Lestrade. Sherlock chewed his lip and considered. He hadn’t had a decent case in more than a fortnight, but the idea of breakfast at Speedy’s with John was also unusually intriguing. 

“I’ve been thinking about your fingernails experiment,” John was saying, searching in vain for a clean drinking glass in the kitchen cupboards. “I don’t think you’re going to get the results you’re hoping for. Once the fingernails are separated from the flesh, they start to decay on their own at a completely different rate.”

_ Boo-doop _ . Sherlock looked down and saw a photo message from Lestrade ‒ a dead body propped on a bar stool with a glass still in his right hand. Sherlock groaned with indecision. 

John seemed to notice his internal struggle and said, “Look, if you’ve got something on, don’t worry about it. You don’t have to entertain me ‒ I’m just killing time.” He gave Sherlock a tight-lipped smile and ‒ no, he definitely had not imagined it ‒ a  _ disappointed _ expression.

“It’s a case,” Sherlock explained slowly, still thinking.

“Oh, well then,” John said with a shrug. “Go ahead. Really, don’t ‒” Sherlock made his decision.

“Care to join me?” A clever smile started to spread across John’s handsome face.

“Really?” He sounded curious and unsure and excited all at once. 

“Hurry up and shower ‒ we need to get to Soho as quickly as possible.” A completely unbidden grin pulled at Sherlock’s cheek as John started toward the bathroom.

“Where was that enthusiasm on our run?” he asked, paused in the door to remove his socks and give Sherlock an almost coy look.

“Solving crimes is my cardio.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I immediately want a t-shirt that says "Crime solving is my cardio."


	3. Chapter 3

John was sitting in the comfier of the two armchairs reading a text from Harry ‒ riddled with spelling errors ‒ when Sherlock re-entered the parlour. The heels of his shining Oxford shoes clicking sightly on the hardwoods drew John’s gaze up and he nearly did a double-take. Sherlock fully-dressed was as confident and straight-backed as a soldier in his armour, and the glint in his shrewd eyes lit his entire face with excitement.

His mouth suddenly dry, John swallowed thickly as he ran his eyes over Sherlock. A sleek black suit was clinging to his slim body in a way that made John’s neck flush. Beneath his jacket, Sherlock was painted into an obscenely-tight purple shirt, the collar and top button undone with an air of perfect casualness. Sherlock danced smoothly about the room, grabbing up his mobile from the side table and John felt his eyebrows fly up at the unencumbered view of Sherlock’s pert arse.

 _Jesus ‒ as if he didn’t look good enough before-hand._ The evening before, Sherlock had been puttering around the flat with a dressing gown over his (admittedly looser) clothes, and he had looked every inch the eccentric genius John was beginning to suspect he truly was. And the pyjamas he’d tried to pass as jogging pants had clung deliciously to his hips as they made their way around the park.

But now… Now, Sherlock looked absolutely delectable, like a million pounds come to life. And he _smelled amazing_. The crisp, expensive scent of his cologne wafted through John’s nose and straight to his cock.

“John? Are you ready to go?” _God, his voice is like sex itself_ . John took a deep breath through his nose and stood slowly, glad that he wasn’t quite hard enough to show yet, but seriously regretting that he hadn’t just gone ahead and had that wank in the shower earlier. Their run had rather worked him up ‒ the blood pumping through his veins, the friction of his pants against his cock, Sherlock covered in sweat and barely-hanging on cotton trousers had nearly done him in, but he didn’t want to hog the shower. Now, he wished he had because contrary to everything John had ever known about sexual attraction, Sherlock somehow looked immensely better with _more_ clothes on.

“Yeah ‒ yes. Erm… ready and willing.” _Shit. Let’s try and keep our cool, okay, Watson?_ He flashed Sherlock a smile and did his best to cover up his awkwardness. Sherlock gave a little cough and gestured with his head for John to follow him out to the street, John feeling foolish and tremendously underdressed in his simple button-down and jeans.

Sherlock threw out a hand and a cab appeared from out of nowhere. He climbed in ahead of John ‒ who did his best not to stare at Sherlock’s arse, though it was practically in his face ‒ and gave the address to the cabbie. They pulled away from the curb and Sherlock immediately began talking. “Why did you let the room upstairs? Why not stay with your brother?”

That gave John a moment’s pause. “Brother?” He’d never said anything about a brother.

“Your phone.” Sherlock turned his palm up, asking, and John dug his mobile from his pocket and handed it over. “It’s expensive ‒ e-mail enabled, MP3 player ‒ but you’re looking for an AirBNB – you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then.” John stared down at the phone in Sherlock’s long fingers as if it had been keeping secrets from him. “Scratched from being in the same pocket as keys and coins. Unlikely you’d treat your one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

Sherlock flipped the mobile in the air and caught it with the same hand so that the back was facing upward. “The engraving,” John said.

_Harry Watson_

_From Clara_

_XXX_

“Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father; this is a young man’s gadget. _Could_ be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live ‒ unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, who’s Clara?” Sherlock’s cheek pulled upward in a knowing grin as he continued to prattle on at lightning speed. “The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left _him_ , he’d have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her_ . He gave the phone to _you_ : that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help: that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don’t_ like his drinking.”

John was dumbfounded. “How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?”

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.” Sherlock handed the mobile back over and his face fell the moment their fingers touched. He looked very much like he’d just realised that he had been speaking at all and instantly regretted it.

“That…” John murmured, unable to stop gaping at the man beside him, “was amazing.”

Sherlock turned, apparently surprised, to look out of his window, but he spun back around to look at John after a moment. “Do you think so?”

John almost laughed. “Of course it was. It was extraordinary ‒ quite extraordinary.” His heart was racing a bit as he stared at Sherlock in awe.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off.’” He did laugh then, a chuckle bubbling out from his chest and catching Sherlock by surprise. The grin that took over Sherlock’s face was almost sheepish. It was actually incredibly adorable. “Did I get anything wrong?”

John swallowed his laughter and said, “Harry and me don’t get on. Never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce. Harry… is a drinker.”

Sherlock looked rather pleased with himself. “Spot on, then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

“Harry’s short for Harriet.”

It was as though Sherlock skidded to a stop. “Harry’s your _sister…_ ” he hissed, disappointment evident on his handsome face. John just gave him a lopsided grin and shrugged in amusement. _“Sister._ There’s always something.” John chuckled again.

“What about you? Any siblings?”

“I have a brother, but I don’t care to darken your heart and mind with tales of _Mycroft_.” Sherlock said the name as if it were a curse word.

“Ah, I see,” replied John. Then, as casually as possible, “So, d’you have a girlfriend?” Sherlock was still staring out the window, contemplating his failure over Harry’s gender, but he turned slowly toward John at his question. Those shining jade eyes narrowed, scrutinising John in a way that was surprisingly rather attractive, as though he were looking straight into him.

“Girlfriend, no,” he answered slowly. “Not really my area.”

“Right.” John licked his lips. “D’you have a… boyfriend?” A smile touched at Sherlock’s eyes and John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“No.” He didn’t elaborate. Just continued to smile coyly at John from across the cab. _So that’s how it’s going to be. Fine. A chase it is, then._ _Good._

“Right. Okay. You’re unattached. Like me.” John schooled his expression into one which was incredibly casual. He rolled his neck and shoulders in a stretch, dropping his left arm onto the back of the seat as he did so, and shifted his hips as though extending the stretch. John’s right hand fell to his thigh and he let his fingers drape towards his groin.

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted in his own seat. John smirked.

“Here we are, lads,” the cabbie chimed from the front seat. “Ten pounds twenty.” Sherlock threw out his arm and handed over the cash before John could even reach for his wallet. He slid from the cab and Sherlock followed, but John did not miss the subtle adjustment Sherlock gave to his crotch on his way out.

John’s eyebrows climbed nearly up to his hairline as he stared at the darkened neon signs which read, “Adult Video ‒ Peep Show.” _What have I gotten myself into?_ “Erm… Sherlock?”

“Not to worry, John.” Sherlock bounded toward the door and flung it open. Shaking his head in astonishment, John followed the detective inside.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Behind the suggestive signage on the outside of the building was, in fact, an almost painfully hip bar. Clearly, the facade of an adult store had been left as an ironic decoration, and John rolled his eyes.

“Sherlock!” A man with greying hair and a tired expression waved at them from beside the bar and John could see the trappings of a crime scene forming. They approached the group of plainclothes officers and the man gave John a bewildered look. “Who’s this?”

“He’s with me,” Sherlock replied, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves.

“Yeah, but who is he?”

“I said,” Sherlock repeated firmly, “he’s with me.” A shiver ran down John’s spine at Sherlock’s commanding tone.

John extended a hand to the man and said, “John Watson.”

“Detective Inspector George Lestrade,” Sherlock interjected, not looking at either of them.

“It’s Greg,” the D.I. sighed as though he had said so a thousand times before and shook John’s hand. “So, has Sherlock got himself an assistant? Finally got tired of fighting with our M.E.s?”

“Oh, no,” John answered. “I’m only here for a few days. I’ve let out the room upstairs ‒ AirBNB.”

“It’s none of your business, Lestrade,” Sherlock cut across their conversation. “John, come and have a look, will you?” The small crowd of people surrounding the bar parted and John took a step forward, but almost immediately stopped in his tracks.

He’d seen dead bodies before. Plenty of them. More than enough. But it shook him to his core every time.

“John?” Sherlock. His face was unusually gentle as John met his gaze. He shut his open mouth and cleared his throat. Shoulders squared, John shook off the uneasy feeling and joined Sherlock at the bar.

The victim was male, mid-forties, slumped forward on a barstool with his cheek pressed against the bar and a whiskey glass clutched in his right hand. There was an identical glass on the bar to his left with a bit of liquid left in it. “What can I do?” John asked Sherlock quietly. “How can I help?”

“What do you think?” Sherlock gestured calmly down at the man as though he routinely came upon mysterious crime scenes in bars. John supposed he probably did.

“I think he’s dead,” John replied cheekily.

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.” Sherlock gave John a _look_ , half-lidded eyes and a teasing smile, and John couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him. Despite the corpse.

He stepped forward and started looking closer, taking a proffered pair of nitrile gloves from D.I. Lestrade. “Dead… five hours, give or take. No signs of injury ‒ no blood or bruising. Poison?” John carefully lifted the glass from the man’s stiff fingers and gave it a bit of a sniff. He shook his head and offered it to Sherlock.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” John agreed. “But if he hasn’t had a heart attack or something, I can’t think what else it might be.” Sherlock gave a deep, contemplative _hmm_ and pressed his steepled fingers to his chin.

“So you’re just…” Lestrade interrupted their moment of quiet contemplation, “you’re just letting out the room upstairs?” John shrugged noncommittally. “Why in God’s name would you come to a _crime scene_ on your holiday?”

“Nothing better to do?” John answered. Sherlock snorted out a little laugh and John grinned at him.

Lestrade shook his head and sighed, resigned to accept John’s presence, and asked Sherlock, “So? Have you got anything?”

“Was there anyone with him?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, pulling a notebook from his pocket and reading out details. “Deceased is one Thomas Crewe, forty-seven. Arrived here last night with his co-worker, Frank Dodds, around midnight. Sometime around two AM, Dodds saw Crewe pass out, but thought it was from drink. Which was odd, because he’d only had one glass of whiskey to Dodds’ three. But, you know, high-stress job, exhaustion ‒ he just wrote it off.”

“What do they do?” John asked.

“Politicians,” Lestrade replied. “Higher-ups in the Brexit party.”

“And they were together all the time?” asked Sherlock.

“Ordered the same thing, even. Whiskey on the rocks.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock drummed his fingertips together. “Dodds had three, Crewe had one… But why Crewe and not Dodds?”

“You don’t reckon Dodds did it?” suggested Lestrade.

“And then called the police on himself?” Sherlock scoffed. “Very helpful of him.”

“Must’ve been the bartender,” John put in. “If Dodds was with him all the time and doesn’t remember anyone tampering with Crewe’s glass.” Sherlock stared at him until John started to feel uncomfortable. “Right?”

“Very good, John,” Sherlock nodded, his smile returning. John tried not to beam. He spun around to say to Lestrade, “We need to speak with the bartender.” Sherlock snatched up the second glass and sniffed at its meagre contents. “Was this Dodds’ glass?”

“I believe so,” Lestrade confirmed. “Why?” Sherlock held out the glass for John to smell and he did so.

“Garlic?” Sherlock was still. “Arsenic?” Sherlock nodded. “Dodds was poisoned, too?”

“The attempt was made, certainly,” Sherlock confirmed, replacing the glass on the bar.

“So why does Dodds’ glass have a smell and not Crewe’s?” John wondered aloud.

“Different poisons?” Lestrade suggested. Sherlock practically rolled his eyes.

“No,” he answered. “Identical drinks, identical poisons. One killer, two targets, only one victim,” Sherlock recited. “The ice. The ice was poisoned and set aside for these two men. Dodds had three drinks, went through them rather quickly, too, I’d imagine. No time for the ice to melt. Crewe, however, nursed his one drink for a couple of hours and drank not only the whiskey, but the poisoned ice water mixed in. Dodds left the ice in his glass, which has since melted, and now presents a slight scent of garlic where Crewe’s does not.”

“Brilliant,” John uttered. Sherlock rounded on him.

“Really?”

“Completely brilliant.” He ran his tongue over his smiling lips and saw Sherlock’s eyes dart down to his mouth at the motion. Lestrade said something before turning back to his team, but John couldn’t be arsed to listen. Instead, he stared up at Sherlock and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, wishing it were Sherlock’s unreal mouth against his own. Little else occupied his mind at that moment other than running his tongue over that sharp Cupid’s bow, his plush bottom lip, that witty tongue swirling around in John’s mouth‒

“Sherlock?” Lestrade’s voice interrupted John’s steadily-dirtying thoughts and they both turned to look at the Detective Inspector with thinly-veiled annoyance.

“What?” Sherlock snapped and John thrilled a little to see the slight flush rising in Sherlock’s cheeks.

“The bartender’s missing.”


	4. Chapter 4

“So this running doesn’t bother you?” John panted out as they dashed down Shaftesbury Avenue.

“What’s the matter, John? Too much for you?” Sherlock shouted over his shoulder with a cocky grin.

John barked out a laugh and picked up the pace, his eyes still on their prey. “No such thing, Holmes!” They skidded out of the path of a cab, narrowly avoiding being flattened in the intersection, before the bartender took a sharp right turn down Sherwood Street. John pumped his arms and grit his teeth, gaining on their suspect as he veered left into a small park.

With a final surge of speed, John leapt forward and threw his arm around the bartender’s thin shoulders, pulling him to the ground with a dull  _ thud.  _ Sherlock was only a step or two behind him and immediately swooped down to help John wrestle the man’s arms behind his back. From the pocket of his coat, Sherlock produced a set of handcuffs and John’s eyebrows flew up.

“You carry handcuffs? All the time?” Sherlock spun the metal bracelets around one long finger with a cheeky glint in his eye before slapping them around the bartender’s wrists.

“You never know.” A shiver ran through John at the sound of that incredible voice.  _ God, what does he sound like when he cums, I wonder? _

“If you two have quite finished,” an oily voice interrupted John’s thoughts and he turned to see who had spoken. It was a tall man with thinning ginger hair and a horribly expensive suit ‒ even John could tell. Sherlock positively scowled at him.

“Mycroft,” he spat and John shot Sherlock a curious look.

“Mycroft?” John repeated. “Isn’t that ‒”

“My brother,” Sherlock confirmed. They stood in unison, each of them sizing Mycroft up in their own way. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sure Detective Inspector Lestrade informed you that this is a political matter,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “I am here to take this man into a higher custody than that of New Scotland Yard.”

“How did you even know where to find us?” John asked, astonished.

“CCTV,” Sherlock answered with a roll of his eyes. “My brother watches little else. CCTV ‒ mostly of me ‒ and Judy Garland films.” John snorted. Nothing about the sleek facade of the man before him said  _ I’m a sucker for old Hollywood glamour. _

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, raising one eyebrow in a very parental gesture, “I am ordering you to hand this man over to my people. This is a matter of national security.” The man on the ground between John and Sherlock gave a pathetic little whine, as though he had not anticipated getting into this much trouble for one attempted and one successful murder.

_ “Ordering me?” _ Sherlock’s eyes widened incredulously.

“Why don’t we wait until D.I. Lestrade gets here,” John suggested, raising his hands in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “I mean ‒ do you even have the  _ authority _ to arrest this man?”

Mycroft Holmes turned on John as slowly as a lion stalking its prey, an eerie smile spreading over his lips. “I have every authority, Captain Watson, I can assure you.” John bristled at the use of his name ‒ how did this man know who he was? “And I can also assure you that if you attempt to interfere with the investigation of this man’s crimes, that your sure-to-be illustrious military career will soon reach its humiliating end.”

John rolled his shoulders, tilted his head thoughtfully, pursed his lips and clenched his jaw ‒  _ Captain _ Watson, it was, then. “You’re trying to threaten me?” he asked with not one ounce of actual question.

“I am not  _ trying _ , Captain Watson,” Mycroft replied, his eyes narrowing.

“No,” John agreed, “you’re  _ failing.” _

It was Sherlock’s turn to snort; he turned his head aside and stifled a laugh at John’s utter cheek. Thankfully, the police chose that moment to arrive and prevent John and Mycroft from coming to blows. Lestrade was first from his car and had crossed the small park in no time, a relieved look spreading over his face when he saw the the bartender had been successfully apprehended. 

“Thank God,” he said, waving a few more detectives over. “Sherlock, as ever, you are a lifesaver.”

“You can thank John for this one,” Sherlock said, making room for the officers to gather their suspect. “He’s the one who actually made the tackle.” Lestrade gave John a grateful little nod, but had no time to speak before Sherlock continued on. “Lestrade, you’ve met my civil  _ serpent _ of a brother. I leave you to liaise with him and wish you Godspeed. John.” With a sharp nod toward the street, Sherlock beckoned John to follow him away from the park and the awkward situation bubbling between two opposing forces ‒ Mycroft and Lestrade.

“This is the sort of thing you do all the time, then, is it?” John asked as their feet left the grass and landed on the concrete. “Chasing down murderers and experimenting on dead bodies?”

“Murderers and dead bodies,” Sherlock mused, walking briskly back toward the intersection, “the bread and butter of consulting detectives.”

John huffed a laugh and said, “That was insane.”

“You invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock reminded him and John laughed even harder.

“That wasn’t just me.” Sherlock grinned all the same and they paused on the crowded sidewalk. John glanced around him at the absolute chaos that was Piccadilly Circus: people talking and shouting and walking and running, cars horns blaring, blinking neon signs and electronic billboards, odours both pleasant and otherwise wafting from shop doors and sidewalk grates. It was nearly overwhelming. 

Or, at least, it used to be. London used to be an uncontrollable chaos, the likes of which made Afghanistan seem almost calm and familiar. Long days and weeks and months of nothing but quiet patrols in the hot desert sun were a life John understood. He knew his place. He felt useful and a part of something bigger than himself in a way that he had never felt at home.

But now, standing on this crowded corner in the grey mid-morning daylight, watching as Sherlock searched out a cab, John felt that same sensation. Purpose. 

And Sherlock himself certainly didn’t hurt. He was… resplendent.  _ Jesus, he’s not a Renaissance painting _ . But he might as well have been ‒ black curls whipping in the breeze, his long coat billowing about him like some sort of dashing pirate hero, the  _ damn _ buttons on that  _ damn _ shirt just trying their best to keep his chest covered. Not to mention the sharp line of his jaw, his plush lips, his unreal eyes…

_ Alright, Watson. Get yourself together.  _ “Sherlock,” he said, dropping his voice a bit and wrapping his fingers gently around the other man’s elbow. Sherlock glanced down at John’s hand on his arm and then up at John, his eyes wide, and John flashed him his most charming smile. “You know, we never did have breakfast.” John ducked his head as he took a step closer, crowding Sherlock a little.

Jade eyes blinked owlishly at John for a moment before Sherlock said, “Are you… are you hungry?”

John ran his tongue across his lips suggestively before rumbling, “Starving.” Sherlock’s eyes followed every minute motion of John’s tongue.

“I know a place.” A cab finally turned up and they clambored inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know, but I'm sleepy. So I'll cut it off here and return tomorrow. All my love and I cannot thank you all enough for the beautiful outpouring of love this story has gotten! It was completely unexpected -- especially seeing as I wasn't necessarily taking this fic seriously when I started. It was just a cute little prompt response and I absolutely did *not* expect so many people to respond so well. I love you all! <3 Diana


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't think I've mentioned before, but, as always, I get my direct quotes from Ariane DeVere's lovingly-captured episode transcripts. Can't thank you enough, Ariane! https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/

“Sherlock!” A stout man with a slick ponytail greeted them warmly as they entered a small Italian restaurant. He grasped Sherlock’s hand with both of his own and waved them over to a table by the window. Sherlock gave the man a warm, charming smile, but John could tell it was still a little forced. “Anything on the menu, whatever you want ‒ free.”

John’s eyebrows went up at that and he slid into the booth beside Sherlock with an impressed expression. For his part, Sherlock just continued smiling stiffly as the man placed two menus on the table between them. 

“On the house, for you  _ and _ your date,” the man continued. John suppressed a grin as Sherlock shot him a brief, furtive look. Checking to see if John would correct him. He would not. “This man got me off a murder charge.”

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock said, and Angelo extended a hand to John and offered him a cheery smile. “Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town house-breaking.” John shook Angelo’s hand with a smirk.

“He cleared my name,” Angelo insisted.

“Cleared it a bit,” Sherlock clarified.

“But for this man, I’d have gone to prison.”

“You  _ did _ go to prison.”

Angelo ignored Sherlock’s contribution and winked conspiratorially at John. “I’ll get a candle for the table. More romantic.” John chuckled to see Sherlock flip his menu up in front of his face, attempting to hide the faint blush rising on his high cheekbones. Angelo returned after a short moment and placed a small tea light on the table before shooting John a thumbs-up.

“Thanks,” John said lowly, cutting his eyes over at Sherlock ‒ who was very determinedly not watching John for a reaction. That drew another grin.  _ He’s nervous. _ John shifted until his foot barely nudged Sherlock’s and the detective cleared his throat, but did not move. His eyes were staring, unmoving, at the menu before them and the flush on his cheeks intensified. John pursed his lips to hide the smirk taking over his lips. John took up his own menu and actually read it ‒ he  _ was _ , in fact, pretty hungry.

A young man in his mid-twenties came swooping over to the table and placed two glasses of water on the table. His eyes glued to Sherlock, he said in a breathy tone, “What can I get for you, Mister Holmes?”

Sherlock glanced up and took the waiter in. “Oh, hello, BIlly.” Billy blushed furiously at the use of his name. “Erm…” Sherlock finally managed to read the menu and said abstractedly, “the aubergine parmigiana.” He passed over his menu while turning his gaze on John. The waiter was still staring dreamily at Sherlock. John narrowed his eyes.

“What’s good, Billy?” he asked with the slightest edge to his voice. Billy blinked and seemed to come out of a trance.

“Oh, ah…” Billy forced a fleeting smile onto his face and managed to collect himself. A little too much. He answered John with more than a hint of sass, “Everything’s good, innit? Not like I’d say anything different.” He gave a sarcastic little snort and glanced back at Sherlock for approval.

To John’s utter delight, Sherlock did not approve. “You should. The veal tortellini is abhorrent,” Sherlock said as he pulled his mobile from his pocket and fired off a text as long as a Tolstoy novel in the space of about three seconds. John pressed his tongue into his cheek to hold back his laughter. “Bring him that sausage thing Camilla made last week.” He silenced his mobile and added, “Unless you don’t care for sausage?”

John grinned cheekily. “Oh, no. I’m rather a fan, actually.” He gave Sherlock a little wink as he passed his menu over to Billy. Both Sherlock and the waiter blushed at the innuendo and John found himself feeling rather smug. Billy, properly put in his place, ducked his head and went to relay their order to the kitchen without another word.

There was a beat of heavy silence while Sherlock and John stared at one another, clear jade eyes boring into midnight blue, a definite charge in the air. Angelo came by with a bottle of wine and two glasses, nattering away about how the subtle notes would compliment both of their meals or some such nonsense, but John barely had the brain power to nod at him in thanks. He took up his glass, made rather a show of brushing his bottom lip along the rim, and took a decadent sip. Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose and emitted an odd little hum that made John shiver.

Getting himself together, Sherlock cleared his throat and his expression smoothed out. “So, should we…  _ chat _ , or something?”

John laughed. “‘Chat?’”

“You know,” Sherlock said with a little flip of his hand, “get to know each other. Whatever it is people do when they’re…” He trailed off but John knew what he was on about. 

“When they’re on a date?”

“A date,” Sherlock repeated contemplatively, staring down at his own long fingers which were wrapped around the stem of his wine glass. 

“You know,” John teased, “when two people who like each other go out and have fun?”

“That’s what I was suggesting,” Sherlock replied with an air of over-casualness. “Your accent is indicative of a youth spent in Chelmsford ‒ or perhaps Harlow.” John stared at him for a beat.

“Is that your way of asking where I’m from?”

“I’m not asking ‒ the evidence suggests that you are from Chelmsford or perhaps‒”

“Chelmsford, yes,” John interrupted with a gentle smile. “Spent most of my life there until I went to King’s.”

“Trained at Bart’s, I imagine?”

“You imagine correctly.” John took another sip of his wine as Billy brought over their plates. As he placed John’s dish before him, John made sure to stare directly at him, his eyes slightly narrowed and head tilted to the side in a gesture he had used to intimidate better men than Billy for quite some time.

Billy had the good sense to chew his lip and keep his eyes downcast as he asked, “Is there anything else I can get you, gentlemen?”

“No, thank you, Billy,” Sherlock answered, still apparently oblivious to the power-play going on between his waiter and his date. Billy turned away and it was just the two of them again.

“So, what about you?” John resumed their conversation. “A jolly-good public school, I reckon? Eton?”

“Harrow.”

“Oxford?”

“Cambridge.”

John nodded slowly, trying to suppress his smile but something about Sherlock made him want to grin like a fool. And John H. Watson was no fool. “Well then,” he said, “what else would you like to know?”

Sherlock pondered for a second while he pushed his aubergine parmigiana about his plate. “Chocolate or vanilla?”

“What?” John almost laughed.

“You heard me ‒ chocolate or vanilla?” John thought about it.

“Strawberry.” It was Sherlock’s turn to grin. “You?”

“Chocolate ‒ I’m not some sort of psychopath.” John  _ did _ laugh at that.

“Alright. Erm… London or Paris?”

Sherlock gave John a look which clearly said,  _ Don’t waste your turn on silly questions. _

“Okay, okay, you’re right ‒ London,” John agreed.

“Milk or sugar?” continued Sherlock.

“Milk.”

“Sugar.”

“Oh! I’ve got a good one,” John said with an excited expression.  _ “Star Wars _ or  _ Lord of the Rings _ ?”

Sherlock made a  _ pfft _ sound.  _ “Lord of the Rings.” _

_ “Star Wars.” _ John’s smile widened as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Cats or dogs?”

“Dogs.”

“Obviously.” With a little shrug as though to suggest that  _ cats _ would have been a completely unacceptable answer, Sherlock finally took a bite of his food.

“Football or rugby?”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Neither. You?”

“Rugby.”

“I thought so,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes darkening.

“What?”

“Nothing. Summer or winter?”

“Winter.”

“Summer.”

“Really?” That one surprised John ‒ Sherlock looked so at home in his heavy peacoat and scarf, it was hard to imagine him in the heat. But imagine it, John did. Linen trousers, white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a thin sheen of sweat on the back of his neck…

“I get more done in the summer,” Sherlock was saying, and John refocused. “Longer days, fewer social obligations. And when I was younger, summer meant no boring classwork getting in the way.”

“Alright,  _ Public School _ ,” John’s voice lilted with a little tease, “Shelley or Keats?”

“Ugh,” groaned Sherlock around a mouthful of vegetables and sauce, “Byron! Why does no one ever suggest Byron?”

John gave a little snort. “He did have rather a reputation.” John tucked into his own food ‒ it was really very good.

“He was no worse than the rest of them,” Sherlock countered, “he only had fewer qualms about it.” It seemed as though Sherlock had finally found his enthusiasm for eating; he grabbed up a breadstick and tore it in half before soaking it in the sauce on his plate, talking all the while. “I swear ‒ you’d think that after all the things Shelley and Keats got up to, Byron’s sleeping with a man or two wouldn’t be such a scandal.”

“Well, you won’t hear any criticism from me on that front.” John dipped his finger in the alfredo sauce on his own plate before swirling his tongue suggestively around the digit. Sherlock’s eyes widened as they followed the motion of John’s tongue.

“No,” his voice dropped to a rather delicious register, “nor from me.” Their eyes locked all the time, Sherlock took a sip of his wine before letting his tongue dart out to catch a stray drop on his plush bottom lip. John’s groin tightened at the sight.

“Well,” John cleared his throat and adjusted his posture until he felt his sexiest, his most confident. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, and let his left knee brush up against Sherlock’s warm thigh. John worked his jaw, smiling slightly ‒ almost dangerously ‒ and let his gaze travel from Sherlock’s mouth to the positively sinful curve of his throat and back up to meet Sherlock’s own eyes. A slight flush graced the detective’s cheekbones as John began, “I’d ask ‘your place or mine,’ but, well…” He closed with a wink and Sherlock swallowed audibly, setting down his flatware with a little  _ clank _ .

“Angelo!” he called out suddenly. “Could you box this up, please?” A little  _ ding _ sounded from John’s trouser pocket and he fished out his mobile, still smirking. His expression fell as he read the text from Harry:

_ John, please. I need to talk too you. Its reallly important. _

His grip tightened and the fingers of his free hand clenched where they rested on the table.  _ Faking _ , he told himself.  _ She’s faking it ‒ nothing’s wrong, she’s just trying to bait me. _

“Your sister?” Sherlock’s expression was no longer hungry or lustful, but full of concern. His eyes darted all over John’s face, reading his every thought, and John sighed. He knew it would be useless to lie. Especially to Sherlock.

“Yeah,” he sighed, “Harry is… drunk, probably.”

“She insists on seeing you.” John nodded, his jaw clenched. “You should go.”

“No, Sherlock, really, she’s ‒”

“I’ll go with you. Pretend to be a colleague of some sort,” Sherlock said without a hint of suggestion, as though they were merely going over a plan they had established some time ago. “She’ll see you really  _ are _ busy ‒ which you’re not ‒ and stop thinking you’re avoiding her ‒ which you are ‒ and then we can resume our… conversation.” He raised one eyebrow suggestively and John couldn’t help the heat that rose up his spine.

“Fine,” he acquiesced. “But we’ll make it quick, yeah? Ten minutes, tops, and then we’re getting out of there.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said lowly and John shivered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'd like to break out of my own box a little bit here as ask for suggestions. I have an overall structure for this fic going forward, thanks to watsonshoneybee's original prompt, but I'd love to know what else my fantastic readers would like to see. Characters? Situations? Quotes? Headcanons? I don't usually ask for suggestions like this because I don't like to let anybody down, but I've really enjoyed all the input on this story. So keep it coming!
> 
> All my love,  
> Diana


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For giggles, I ran Martin through the FaceApp gender swap and instantly fell in love with Harry Watson. https://twitter.com/SDianaNimm/status/1139244899272929281  
> *puurrrr*

John’s leg was bouncing uncomfortably against Sherlock’s in the back of the cab.  _ Not nervous, exactly. Anxious? Angry, perhaps? What about? Because the sister interrupted our meal? Well, that makes sense ‒ that’s why I’m angry with her. _ Sherlock watched the city roll by outside his window as they made their way to the Marble Arch to meet Harry.

“So what’s my cover?” Sherlock asked, somewhat playfully. John quirked an eyebrow at him.

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean, what’s the reason we’re not staying to chat with Harry? What’s the reason you’re with me, a complete stranger, and not with your family right now? Come on, John. Do keep up,” Sherlock rattled and John visibly relaxed.

“Alright, erm… you could… well, what is it your brother does?” he inquired. “Surely he’s big and important enough to pull me away from my family?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Oh yes, he certainly is. But Mycroft’s, as he insists,  _ minor _ position in the British government is in fact far too elevated to be involved with an Army doctor on leave. No offense.”

“None taken,” John replied. “So, okay then ‒ how about you’re working for a colonel. Colonel… I dunno, Colonel Patterson, or something. While on leave I’m meant to go give a briefing about civilian and soldier relations in the areas surrounding our operations in Kandahar.” John made a vague flipping sort of gesture with his hand as he developed the details of their ruse and Sherlock was relieved to see him loosening up a bit. “You’re the colonel’s assistant and liaison ‒ civilian, obviously. No offense.”

“None taken.” The cab pulled up to the curb and Sherlock led the way out, turning up the collar of his coat to add to his air of distant authority. He did not miss the appreciative glance John gave him as he did so.

It took only the briefest of moments to identify Harry Watson. She looked like John ‒ the same nose and chin and deep blue eyes. But her hair was longer and more blonde than John’s, her mouth was a little fuller, and the lines of her face were far more severe.  _ Physical indications that she is older, though age difficult to determine because of years of alcohol abuse. Typical “big brother” would be more eager to help than to avoid ‒ embarrassed? Determined to break a pattern? _

“Johnny!”  _ Older, definitely. They get away with that sort of thing. _ Harry stood from her seat on one of the stone planters and swayed unmistakably. But she gathered herself and made her way across the open walkway to embrace John almost desperately. “I’m so glad you came!”

“Harry,” John said stiffly, patting her awkwardly on the back. “What’s so important?”

“What’s so important?” she asked indignantly. “We’re family, Johnny. Or had you forgotten?” John rolled his eyes and sighed but Harry pressed on. “You would come home after  _ six months _ away ‒ none of us has clapped eyes on you in  _ ages _ ‒ and you would just ignore us all?”

“Really, Harry? Is that it?” John demanded, more tense and cold than Sherlock had seen him in their short time together. He was almost unrecognisable. “You said it was something important ‒”

“It  _ is  _ important!” Harry insisted. Despite her serious expression, Sherlock noted a glassy sort of look in her eye. “It’s Dad ‒”

“I don’t want anything to do with Dad,” John cut her off.  _ Interesting _ , Sherlock thought. John’s shoulders were unbelievably tight as he turned slightly to give Sherlock a sidelong glance. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I don’t care what’s going on with him, I’ve got better things to do than be dragged down by his holier-than-thou, judgemental shite.”

_ Very interesting. _ Sherlock furrowed his brows and continued to stare unabashedly between John and his sister.  _ Does he have a problem with John being in the Army? Or with the fact that he sleeps with men? Can’t handle two gay children? _

“Do you really need to be here for this?” Harry’s voice cut through Sherlock’s thoughts like a bullet and he jerked his gaze up to meet hers. “Who are you, anyway?”

Sherlock adjusted his stance to present more authority and he stuck his hand out stiffly. “Sherlock Holmes, personal secretary to Colonel James Patterson.” John gave Sherlock a brief, almost amused glance, but Sherlock ignored it. Harry did not take his hand.

“Is that supposed to impress me?” she asked with a smart tilt of her head.

“Not really,” Sherlock answered, putting his hand back in his coat pocket. “If it did impress you, we wouldn’t be doing our job very well.”

“Well, Mister Holmes, this is between me and my brother ‒ it’s nothing to do with you.”

“That’s not exactly true. Captain Watson is due for a meeting with the Colonel and I am tasked with ensuring his safe arrival.” With an air of perfect nonchalance, Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket and checked the time. “In fact, Captain Watson, we really should be going.”

“You don’t have to worry about Johnny getting someplace safe,” Harry said, sounding somehow both sad and infuriated. “He can get himself anywhere, as long as it’s away from home.”

“Jesus, Harry,” John groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let’s not do this now.” She ignored him.

“You took the first chance you got to get as far away from us as you possibly could.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I did!” John seemed to finally snap. His tone was sardonic and cold. “Between Dad’s drinking and his shouting, and Mum’s drinking and her crying, and now  _ you’re _ drinking and your fucking meddling, you’re damn right I took my chances. I’d rather be getting shot at halfway ‘round the world than spend one more day in that house with you lot!” John huffed a sharp breath through his flared nostrils, clenched his fists, and turned swiftly to march toward the street.

Sherlock made to follow him, but thought better of it for a brief moment. Taking out a pen and a scrap of paper, he scribbled out the name of his last treatment facility. It was the last one because it had worked. “Here,” he said lowly, not making eye contact. “By my estimation, you’ve got one last chance with your wife.” Stunned, Harry took the slip of paper and Sherlock said no more, turning to go to where John was trying in vain to hail a cab.

They were silent as Sherlock put up his hand and effortlessly flagged down a cab. They climbed inside and Sherlock gave his address to the driver. After a long, tense moment, John finally spoke.

“You know James Patterson is a novelist.”

“Is he?” Sherlock was genuinely surprised. “I must have heard the name somewhere. Read it in the paper or some such.” John actually let out a little laugh. He still sounded tired.

“You’re incredible.”

‒‒

Despite the early hour, John had gone straight to bed when they got back to Baker Street. He said he was tired and Sherlock sensed that he wanted to be alone. Even if it  _ did _ leave Sherlock disappointed and frustrated. Things had been progressing  _ exceedingly _ well before Harry’s untimely intervention.

John had been  _ flirting _ ‒ and Sherlock was fairly sure he had been flirting back. It was difficult for him to be sure sometimes of how his own behaviours were received by others. But that had certainly been his intent. 

Sherlock sat up for most of the night, his thoughts flitting from the murder in the bar to John. John licking his lips. John smiling roguishly. John crowding him on the street. John grunting softly ‒ 

No, wait, that one was actually happening. Breathy sighs were emanating from the room upstairs and Sherlock leapt to his feet, taken completely by surprise. He was probably getting ready for another run. Stretching. Sweating. Heaving.

He dashed into his bedroom and pushed the door shut, stepping back from it as though it had said something rude. His hands shook a little. He should  _ not _ be feeling this way while John was innocently warming up for a morning run. God, what Sherlock wouldn’t give to watch him at it.

_ Alright, fuck it _ . Sherlock was too keyed up to ignore it anymore. He made a beeline for the bed, undoing his trousers as swiftly as he ever had before falling the wrong way across the mattress. When his hand closed around his rapidly-hardening cock, Sherlock let out a tight groan from the back of his throat. His eyes slipped shut and his head pressed back into the mattress as his fist flew over his erection.

Sherlock tried to be as quiet as possible. He wanted to hear John. A rhythmic  _ thumping _ began to sound through the ceiling, accompanied by more intense grunting.  _ Push-ups _ , Sherlock thought, his fingers dancing over his shaft. He could just picture it: John’s strong arms pressing his body up from the floor, shining with a fresh sheen of sweat. Shirtless ‒ he would be shirtless, his naked back a perfect plane of muscle that dipped enticingly before his round arse, clad only in those too-small shorts. “Mmm…” Sherlock moaned softly and bit his lip.  _ God _ , John truly was exquisite…

After an almost embarrassingly short time, Sherlock felt his orgasm flying through his veins. He was hot and cold all over, his breath panting hotly through his open mouth. At the last moment, Sherlock reached down with his free hand and pressed his fingertips against his hole. The pressure was  _ perfect _ ‒ just what he needed. He came over his fist to the sound of John groaning loudly, likely deep in a stretch but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He gave himself a moment for his breath to even out before flinging himself off the bed and shucking his (now soiled) suit. Sherlock dug frantically through his hamper for the pyjama bottoms from yesterday ‒ he’d be damned if he was going to miss another early-morning run with Captain John Watson.


End file.
